Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Many people allow their judgments concerning Fischer the individual to influence their judgment of Fischer the chess player. -- Ed Kennedy
Being Jewish myself, I somehow didn't see the problem: who cares what a mentally ill (but strangely likable) individual says? If he didn't make some money at chess, I could see him becoming a street person, shaking his fists at cars as they passed by his corner of the block. Isn't it preferable to have him in a self-sufficient position rather than as a liability of the state? -- Jeremy Silman (on Fischer)
While there can be no excuse for the public statements he has made, there can be understanding and even sympathy - for him, if not for his illness. -- Frank Berry Jr. (on Fischer)
Is Fischer quite sane? -- Salo Flohr
During the cold war the russians were chess champions, but on July 11, 1972 Fischer began his match with Boris Spassky in Reykjavik, Iceland for the world championship. He won and became a national hero.
On September 1, 1992, Bobby Fischer came out of his 20 year retirement and gave a press conference in Yugoslavia. He pulled out an order from the U.S. Treasury Department warning him that he would be violating U.N sanctions if he played Chess in Yugoslavia. He spat on the order and now faces ten years in prison and a $250,000 fine if he returns to the U.S. Bobby Fischer had become a villian.
Bobby Fischer is being held in a Japanese prison and awaits extradition to the USA.
Monday, February 21, 2005
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Well I went down to the revival
to give my soul a chance
And the DJ spoke to God,
and the congregation danced.
Everyone was dancing
around that golden cow
I slowly shuffled forward,
feets’ don’t fail me now.
The DJ pointed upwards
to an angel on a swing.
Back and forth she went
and the choir began to sing.
Rose petals fluttered downwards
and perfume filled the air.
Thinking will imprison you.
Dancing takes you there.
The DJ points his finger
my stillness he derides.
Because it's not apparent
I'm dancing on the inside.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Mrs Young at the Elders.
Mr Smith was a retired minister. He had taught at a private school, and had been dismissed. He was now a dishwasher and a part time gardener in an oldfolks home. Every Sunday he went up to Westminster cathedral to listen to the choirboys sing. He liked their high tennor voices.
The other passion in his life was potatoes. He liked saying Maris Piper, Record, and King Edward. He knew all about wireworm and blight, and he kept a keen eye on the potato shaws, and admired the sheen and health of the leaves. He regarded potatoes and choirboys with the same rapt gaze.
Mrs Young was the same age as Mr Smith and she loved flowers. She was frail and couldn't do any heavy digging and she would always ask me to prepare a flower bed for her. She liked to surround herself with cut flowers. She liked the scent. She liked the colour. In the big house the splashes of colour in the corridors, and the fragrances over the fireplace, were evidence that Mrs Young had been about her work. Sweet peas, Wallflower, and the climbing rose Zephirine Drouhin were her favourites. She always said the scent from that rose was better than a meal.
Mr Smith also required my services to double dig his trenches for his early potatoes. There was a constant pull between potatoes and flowers, between male and female, between function and frivolity, between formality and abandonment. One day Mr Smith took me aside and said he was going to let me into a great secret and he drew me close and whispered in my ear "You can't eat flowers in the winter". Mrs Young who had been observing this took her secateurs and cut me a perfect single rose and presented it to me with a smile.